


The Games They Play

by silentsoundy



Category: Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 20:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsoundy/pseuds/silentsoundy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bet is placed and Soundwave collects after winning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Games They Play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sacramental_Wine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sacramental_Wine/gifts).



> ||this follows up on a bit of IC fun that was had during a BGO game. The spoken bits are from an OC who is Blaster's and Soundwave's sparkling, HiFi||  
> FORMAT:  
> Action/Narrative: --TEXT--  
> Soundwave's Telepathy: **TEXT**  
> Soundwave's Recordings: {TEXT}  
> Additional speech: "TEXT"

\--naturally they would follow up on a bit of that sportsman-like bantering and jibes exchanged during a rather odd and eventful turn of a particular digital game, both having slipped each other non-too-subtle wagers to see who would win, and what would the prizes be. After all, each being a stubborn as they are, with strong, challenging personalities, wagering one's frame for the late cycle was one they could not pass up--

\--and now the spymaster will collect~--

\--he finds it rather amusing, really, the smug took in Blaster's optic, that grin and stance with arms held aloft, beckoning the dark spy to him with commentary yielding obedience and sultry promises of behaving, both mecha knowing that the subterfuge is thin at best. But he'll comply to the complacent, especially when presented with such a trophy, moving with only the quiet tapping of his pedes against the metallic floor. His biolights dim and fade into the inky mesh of his protoform, systems falling to run silent and his visor a blank reflection of Blaster himself. Digit tips press against his Maestro's tape deck, a single wing-blade rising to push the mech back until the back of his knee joints hit Blaster's berth, and then some, the dark spy forcing the Autobot to sit then lay back with every step he takes--

**Mmhm that's it then, servos to themselves, up over your helm, Maestro~**

\--the projected sigh, vocals deep in their harmonized overlay, such softly spoken syllables snaking into the recesses of Blaster's mind, pitched with just enough strength to tickle a few bits of cortical circuitry and tease them at the right frequency to have the subsequent laughter hitch into a gasp. Oh, he knows the smooth phrases his Maestro will come up with, the dueling affections they share as each attempts to outshine praise and desire, when lips pressed to living metal elicits a curse alongside protests and begging. He knows such exchanges are to be expected, and revels at his ability to impact delivery with such simple manipulations--

\--his grin curls lip plates over smooth denta amid kisses and muted sighs of his own--

\--he's not one to give in to Blaster's desires at the moment, the mood taking him down a path lined with greedy intentions and selfish thoughts, and so he lifts his frame from having bent to mouth what his thoughts were ghosting with curling tendrils into a kiss. Feelers' claws replace his servos once segments have snakes their way along limbs and armor, and the music mech will find himself in quite the precarious position of having his legs lifted and crooked at the knees, spread to expose pelvic span and stubbornly closed panels--

**Ah, Blaster~ Will it be that kind of cycle spent? Will you have me begging and pleading despite having claimed victory and earning you as my prize? Come now, you know what I desire~**

\--oh how he laments and pines after the loss of his claws at this particular moment, wanting nothing more than the ability to press such digits against the seams of Blaster's thicker panels, slip razor hooks under plating to ply and tease at that living metal until he's pulled those delicious cries from his Maestro. He vents quietly, trilling a few sad notes in a melancholic display of reminiscing, projecting intent as he settles between Blaster's lifted legs, kneeling on the floor in his usual, awkward splay of digi-grade legs. A kiss pressed to said plating should yield similar results, a nip bitten along the hip joint, and a glossa diving to tease at exposed cables does in fact do so, eventually. The dark spy continues this game until thin, blue tendrils of snapping static play across his lip plates, pulled and teased from the gasping mech under him, and it is only now that he's deemed it necessary to start cycling cooler air throughout his own frame, ministrations having a mutual impact on their frames. Kliks pass while digits continue to caress and press, delve and pull, glossa and denta following suit, only pausing when that tell-tale click of an interface array being exposed is heard--

**Beautiful~**

\--and to him, it truly is. Crimson optics flicker between sly glances up to Blaster's features and down to admire the slick mesh of his Maestro's valve and the pressurizing spike that's finally released from its housing. The spymaster wastes no time in claiming what belongs to him and is soon lapping at those delectably quivering folds of biotech mesh, pressing his segmented glossa to nodes where he can reach, mindful of how sensitive his bonded is and taking great care in lavishing kitten-soft licks to that trembling anterior node. Oh, the sounds, those lovely gasping, straining cries of quickly mounting pleasure coming from his mech. That tension trembling in his feelers' grasp as Blaster's frame arches and lifts from the berth, only to be restrained and made to hold still. The viscous transfluid and physical proof of desire stringing between array and face plates, shimmering against a grin and blatant lust--

\--such a fine display of the perfect reaction--

**Don't fight me Maestro, don't hold back. I know it. I've seen it. I've experienced it. With you, together. I want you undone quickly under me. Want your taste and scent splashed against glossa and infused with protoform... Ah, how I want you...**

\--he'll bring Blaster to the brink of overload, slipping his slender digits deep into his valve until he's able to stroke and coax his ceiling wall into sending waves upon waves of stimulated bliss over the mech's neural net. And when his Maestro verges on the edge of peaking, he'll pull away with that Cheshire grin and settle back in his stooped, kneeling posture, ensuring the mech watches as he slowly licks every digit of his clean of transfluid--

**Delicious~**

\--the dark spy admires his work, optics roving over Blaster's jerking frame, a spike pressurized to a point of aching, those beautiful blues, wide and nigh flushed white with overcharged lust. His thoughts chuckle low as he makes to crawl over that wreck of a frame, so beautiful, so desired, and he shares a lingering kiss with his Maestro, allowing the mech to press unto him the entirety of his accumulated carnal desperation. And then he's away once more. The spymaster nods and offers Blaster a sympathetic glance, biting his bottom lip and trilling such a soft and pitying tune, all the while having his feelers manipulate the mech's frame in a more suitable position with legs lowered once more and a looped coil gently squeezing that neglected spike--

**Ah, mech, the things I would do to you were we in another time, another place... Other frames...**

\--and yet this bit of teasing hold nothing to stop him from straddling Blaster's hips as he has the mech pinned down, and swaying his lower dorsa at such a sharp angle, his own exposed array is easily pressing against the topside length of that spike. The spymaster continues to sigh placating tidbits of toying sympathy as he clenches his mesh while grinding against his Maestro's spike, fluids mingling while digits curl where they can against tape deck and chassis. He shutters his optics briefly and smiles, tilting his helm back as another vent leaves him, chassis beginning to whine its own protest of an overcharge buildup begging to be released--

**I know what you desire~ What would satisfy the both of us in this dangerous game we play~**

\--and he does, lusting after a mutual end result of such carnal thirst and ache. Crimson optics rimmed white gaze unblinking down into the screwed up features of his Blaster, the mech behaving so admirably, garnering rewards willingly given. He smiles as he pushes up, lifting his frame slightly to change the angle and have Blaster's spike nudge against his anterior node and seal. His trilling comes in short, quiet bursts, hitched as he begins to tremble himself, his systems pinging numerous alerts and warning as his temperature soars and readlines on the brink of overload--

\--his bonded's designations spills from his thoughts in a wave of such raw want that his field's emulation flares painfully from his core the moment he lowers himself to break his seal upon Blaster's spike and seat himself tight against inlay and mesh. To have himself filled, having calipers cycle down hard, tight, unused to such interaction, to have that vibration and shock of modifications and inlay pressed into every node, to have that thick head grind up against a ceiling node that's lain untouched for cycles on end... It nearly undoes the dark spy in that nano-klik of contact, and it has him slowly rocking to grind pelvic plating to housing, slick and quivering, sparking and rutting hard--

\--a myriad of Tarnian curses leaves him as his frame shudders hard and biolights suddenly flare brilliant white, yet he maintains enough control to keep Blaster pinned under him with feeler and servo alike, using the mech and riding him hard towards his own overload. A flurry of whimpers whine from his chassis as he quickly draws closer to the first warnings of his release and he picks up that delicious pace with pelvis tilting into every down stroke and grind--

**Fr-frag, Blaster, ah, mech, yes~!**

\--and so he'll continue on as such, projections overlapping with such sweet sentimentality and guttural moaning, his Maestro's designation the soul focus of his explicit desires as he continues to lift and lower in an increasing pace. Calipers clench to draw Blaster into him deeper, cycling quickly while static snaps from sensory nodes and overheated metal alike. No, it won't be long now. The first one never is, and oh how he'll repeat as necessary until Blaster's quarters, studio and Communications hub is filled with ozone and smoky release. His shoulders hunch tight while he shudders in the last throes of ministrations, riding hard and trilling high, clear notes until his helm cants back and his lips part, giving himself to the moment--

\--a wash of molten heat licks through him, boiling at the base of his spinal struts and pours through to his pelvic span, and with a single, final, slick thrust down he overloads microns after Blaster's hits his ceiling node, pushing him over the edge. He's frozen as wave after wave of static-filled release snakes through him, yet is moved and thrust into still and Blaster rides out his own overload, hard, near violently so, spiking his dark spy in such a terribly desired fashion--

\--the spymaster nearly offlines there and then, almost begging to as the overload spasms through his systems, yet a small, high voice keeps him grounded of sorts, distracting him from completely falling to the moment. The voice presses deeper, tickling the back of his thoughts, and in the aftermath's haze, his reality starts to shimmer and fade--

"Did you two fall asleep in the oil bath? Burst said my datapad was in the studio, but it wasn't so I went looking for it and heard a noise in Mama's wash racks. I thought you and Mama were gone out today, Sire. Have you seen my datapad? It had that boardgame on it. Can we play again?"

\--the dark spy finds himself snapped back to reality rather quickly despite the hard line working furiously between he and his bonded. He peers over the edge of the oil bath, shifting to avoid disturbing the mech whose lap he's straddling who is still deep within the fabricated reality, and blinks to recalibrate his optics and focus on a very curious HiFi. He's taken note that not a drop of oil has been disturbed, nor has their activities during hard lining been audible enough to attract unwarranted attention... Hrm--

**We were... Resting, in a light recharge, sharing our thoughts, my Little Spark... Have you checked under your berth? And yes, we'll play again, soon enough...**

\--with rewards like this after winning, oh yes, they will most definitely play again. And again... And again...--


End file.
